Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 89

Cutting someone off sounds decisive when you say it out loud.

Like a single motion. A clean line. An ending you control.

In reality, it feels more like standing in the middle of a wound and realizing you have to cauterize it yourself—no anesthesia, no countdown, no guarantee it won’t scar you forever.

I don’t text Ellen.

That’s the first choice.

I wake up the morning after everything and stare at my phone for a long time, my thumb hovering over her name, my chest aching with the habit of her. The instinct to explain. To clarify. To demand answers I already have.

Instead, I lock my phone and sit up.

“That’s it,” I whisper to the empty room. “I’m done.”

The words feel unreal.

Ellen was never loud. Never dramatic. She didn’t scream or manipulate openly like Amber used to. She didn’t humiliate me in public like Miles did. She didn’t spiral and self-destruct like Chase.

She just sat quietly beside me while the knife stayed hidden.

That realization hurts worse than the betrayal itself.

I see her for the first time later that day outside the humanities building.

She’s standing alone near the steps, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s waiting for someone.

Me.

My stomach tightens.

For a split second, I consider turning around. Taking the long way. Avoiding another confrontation I don’t know how to survive.

Then she spots me.

Her face changes instantly—relief flashing across it, followed by fear.

“Zoey,” she calls, stepping toward me.

I stop walking.

I don’t move forward. I don’t move back.

“Please,” she says quietly, voice already shaking. “Can we talk?”

Students pass between us, the world moving too fast for how still I feel.

“No,” I say.

The word comes out calm. Flat.

Her breath stutters. “I just—I need to explain.”

“You already did,” I reply.

“That wasn’t—” She swallows. “That wasn’t everything.”

I meet her eyes fully for the first time since the screenshots.

They’re red-rimmed. Exhausted. Guilty.

Once upon a time, that would have made me soften.

Not anymore.

“There is nothing left I need to hear,” I say. “You told me the truth. That was enough.”

She takes another step closer. “Zoey, please. I lost you and him at the same time. I can’t—”

I raise my hand. “Don’t.”

She freezes.

“You don’t get to talk to me about loss,” I say quietly. “Not when you were actively creating mine.”

Her face crumples. “I loved him.”

“And I loved you,” I reply. “As a friend. That didn’t stop you.”

Tears spill down her cheeks. “I never meant to replace you.”

“You didn’t replace me,” I say. “You betrayed me.”

The distinction matters.

She shakes her head desperately. “I was lonely. He saw me. He needed me.”

“So did I,” I say. “And you chose him.”

The words hang heavy between us.

“I hate myself for it,” she whispers.

“That’s not accountability,” I say. “That’s self-pity.”

She flinches like I slapped her.

“I’m not saying that to be cruel,” I add. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

Her shoulders sag. “So that’s it?”

“Yes.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t believe I can be this cold.

“No more talking,” I continue. “No more explanations. No more sitting next to each other in silence pretending we’re okay.”

Her lips tremble. “We were friends.”

I nod. “We were.”

The past tense lands with finality.

“I don’t want closure,” I say. “I don’t want apologies. I don’t want to understand your reasons.”

“Why?” she asks softly.

“Because understanding you doesn’t heal me,” I reply. “It just keeps me tied to you.”

I step back.

“Don’t contact me again,” I say. “Don’t wait for me. Don’t look for me. If you see me, walk the other way.”

Her breath catches. “Zoey—”

“This isn’t revenge,” I add. “It’s survival.”

I turn and walk away before she can say anything else.

I don’t run.

I don’t cry.

I just walk.

The campus feels different without her presence hovering at the edges of my day. Quieter. Emptier. Like something essential has been removed and my body hasn’t caught up yet.

In the library, I take a different table.

At lunch, I sit alone.

In class, I choose a seat on the opposite side of the room.

Each small decision feels like peeling skin off something tender.

Later that afternoon, my phone buzzes.

A message.

Ellen: I understand. I won’t bother you again. I’m sorry for everything.

I stare at it for a long time.

Then I delete the conversation.

Not because I don’t feel anything.

But because feeling everything won’t save me anymore.

That night, I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, memories cycling through my head without permission.

Ellen handing me a highlighter when mine died. Ellen sitting with me in silence when I couldn’t talk. Ellen listening while I cried over Chase, nodding sympathetically.

The realization settles heavy in my chest.

She didn’t save me. She observed me. She wasn’t safe. She was just quiet. Quiet enough to hide what she wanted. Quiet enough to let me believe she wouldn’t hurt me.

I sit up abruptly and hug my knees to my chest, a sob finally breaking free.

“I was so wrong,” I whisper.

About her. About him. About what safety looks like.

The next day, Ellen isn’t in any of my usual places.

Good.

I avoid the library altogether and study in a café off-campus instead, the noise grounding me in a way silence can’t right now. I keep my headphones in, even when nothing’s playing.

When someone asks me about her, I keep my answer short.

“We’re not friends anymore.”

No explanation.

No defense.

The simplicity feels brutal—and freeing.

At night, when the ache creeps back in and my brain tries to bargain with me—

Maybe you were too harsh.

Maybe she deserves a chance to explain.

—I shut it down.

“She made her choice,” I say out loud. “Now I’m making mine.”

There is no closure.

There is no redemption arc.

There is just the end of something that was never as safe as I thought.

And that hurts more than I want to admit.

But for the first time since everything shattered, the silence around me feels honest.

Not empty.

Not peaceful.

Just real.

And right now, that’s all I can manage.